The Secret Play (Pucking Daddies #3)

6. Gemma

Chapter 6

Gemma

H is office was smaller than I had expected. The walls were painted an uninspired shade of beige, and the shelves were crammed with binders, framed photos, and a few trophies that seemed to have been tucked between strategy books as an afterthought.

The air was chilly enough to raise goosebumps on my arms, and I resisted the urge to tug my jacket tighter around myself. A desk sat in the middle of the room, papers strewn across its surface in an organized chaos that somehow fit the man sitting behind it.

Coach Casey McConnell.

I recognized him from his pictures online when he stood to greet me, though this was the first time we’d officially met.

He wasn’t what I’d expected, either—less intimidating than I’d imagined for someone who managed a team of grown men who made their living by crashing into one another on the ice.

But there was a quiet authority in the way he carried himself, from the straight set of his shoulders to the firm grip of his handshake.

“Gemma,” he said, his voice steady but low. “Thanks for coming in.”

“Thanks for having me,” I replied, offering a smile as I sat in the chair across from him.

As I settled in, I couldn’t help noticing his outfit. Despite the chill in the room, he was wearing athletic shorts and a thin, short-sleeved polo that clung to his broad frame. He was strikingly handsome in the classical sense. He had a jaw made of granite and a body made in the gym.

He also had that silver fox thing happening—his gray hair making him look older than his listed age on the team’s website. He was only forty-eight according to it, but he must have gone prematurely gray years ago.

His team picture was from when they’d hired him, and he was gray even then. His posture was surprisingly relaxed—until I noticed the way his fingers tapped lightly against the arm of his chair.

He was nervous.

The thought made me smile. Here was a man who could yell at a room full of huge sweaty athletes without batting an eye, yet he looked like he’d rather face off against the league’s best enforcer than sit through a puff-piece interview.

It was kinda cute.

“You look comfortable,” I said, gesturing to his shorts. “Most people would’ve dressed up for this.”

He glanced down at himself and gave a half-shrug. “I don’t wear what I’d call dress-up clothes when we're training.”

I laughed, and the sound seemed to put him at ease. “Fair enough.”

This wasn’t my first interview, not by a long shot, but it felt different. The stakes were lower—or at least they should’ve been.

My job was simple. Write a feel-good story about the Atlanta Fire and their veteran center, Nico, whose career was nearing its end.

The team’s PR manager had made it clear that this wasn’t an exposé or a deep dive. It was a fluff piece, plain and simple. And I was fine with that. I didn’t have the energy for drama these days.

But as I pulled my notebook and recorder from my bag, I couldn’t shake the strange sense of familiarity that had crept in the moment I walked into his office.

There was something about Casey McConnell—his voice, the way he held himself, the sparkling blue of his eyes—that tugged at the edge of my memory.

It was odd.

I pushed the thought aside and hit record. “So, let’s start with the basics. What’s it like coaching a team like the Fire?”

His lips twitched into a small smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s a challenge, but a good one. We’ve got a mix of veterans and younger guys, so it’s about finding that balance and helping them grow while keeping everyone focused on the same goal.”

“And what’s that goal?”

He raised an eyebrow, as if the answer was obvious. “Winning.”

I laughed again, and this time, his smile softened. “Of course,” I said. “But it’s more than that, isn’t it? There’s a culture to build, a legacy to uphold. Do you think the younger players understand that?”

His expression shifted, his gaze thoughtful. “You’re right. It’s about more than just what happens on the ice. These guys are part of something bigger than themselves. They represent the team, the city, the fans. That comes with responsibility.”

“And you’re the one who makes sure they don’t forget it.”

“Try to,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Doesn’t always work. But they’re good guys. One of the things we focus on is community service to keep us engaged with the city and remind our neighbors we’re here for them. When Hurricane Velma came through three years ago, we took the team to the coast to help with relief efforts there and held a fundraiser. Our guys volunteer in the city, each devoting ten hours a week during the season and twenty hours a week in the off-season. The legacy of the Fire is one of service above everything else.”

I nodded, scribbling notes as I spoke. I’d forgotten about the hurricane—that was a good note to add for the story. Remind readers what their team has done for them. I shifted gears from the fluffy stuff so I could say the interview was more than just puff. “What’s the toughest part of the job?”

“Depends on the day,” he said. “Sometimes it’s managing personalities. No one gets into hockey by being a shrinking violet.”

“I imagine it’s a lot of big egos, that kind of thing?”

“It can be.”

A careful answer, sure to not irritate anyone. Was he hiding something? “Coach McConnell, what other challenges do you face with the team?’

He gave a short shrug, and if I wasn’t mistaken, there was a hint of a smirk. “Sometimes it’s dealing with the media.”

He’s not going to give me anything juicy . Which was fine. This was, after all, a puff piece. I couldn’t blame him for being guarded around me. “Touché. So, what’s the easiest part?”

“The game,” he said without hesitation. “That’s the part I love. Always have. There’s nothing like it.”

His earnestness caught me off guard, and I found myself smiling again. There was nothing phony about the coach. He wasn’t polished or rehearsed the way some people could be during interviews. I detected no media training whatsoever. He was direct, almost blunt, but there was a warmth beneath his professionalism that made me want to keep asking questions.

“Readers will want to know more about you personally. I hope that’s all right.”

“I’m an open book.”

I had interviewed hundreds of people, and of them, a few had made that same declaration. I’d never believed it until now. During my Q&A, I kept it professional, but the truth was, “readers” was me. I wanted to know more about him personally.

The longer we spoke, the more his nervousness seemed to fade, replaced by a quiet confidence that reminded me of why he’d been such a successful coach.

He was passionate about his players, fiercely protective of the team, and deeply invested in the game. And yet, there was an unguardedness about him that I hadn’t expected.

It wasn’t long before I realized I’d stopped thinking about the story altogether. The questions were flowing easily, naturally, and I wasn’t just interviewing him anymore—I was talking to him.

“So,” he said, his voice cutting through my thoughts, “what about you?”

“Me?” I asked, caught off guard.

“Yeah,” he said, leaning forward slightly. “You’re writing about us, but you don’t seem like the typical sportswriter. What’s your story?”

I hesitated, unsure how much to share. I wasn’t used to answering questions. When people got interviewed, they were usually on the defensive or just bragging.

Few ever asked me about me.

I shrugged. “Not much to tell. I grew up in Atlanta, moved to L.A. after college. I’ve been writing about sports for a few years now.”

“And you came back to Atlanta for…?”

“My daughter,” I said, the words slipping out before I could think twice. “She’s starting school soon, and I wanted to be closer to family.”

He nodded, his gaze steady. “That’s a big move.”

“It is,” I admitted. “But it’s going well so far.”

For a moment, there was silence, the kind that felt heavier than it should have. I couldn’t explain why, but something about the way he looked at me made my pulse quicken.

He wasn’t just waiting for me to stop talking so he could start talking about himself more. He was studying me, like he was trying to piece together a puzzle.

“You’re impressive,” he said suddenly, his voice quiet but firm.

The compliment caught me completely off guard. “What?”

“You’ve got this…calm about you,” he said, searching for the words. “But there’s strength under it. I can see why Nico speaks so highly of you.”

I felt my cheeks warm, and I glanced down at my notebook, trying to regain my composure. “Well, I think Nico might be a little biased.”

“Maybe. But I don’t think he’s wrong.”

The air in the room shifted then, charged with something I couldn’t pin down. This wasn’t an interview anymore. It wasn’t just two people talking about hockey.

There was something else, something unspoken, and it set my heart racing. “That’s kind of you to say.”

“Not kind. Just honest.”

“Whatever you want to call it, thank you.”

“Would you let me take you out sometime?” he said, his tone careful but direct.

The question hung in the air, heavy with possibility. My brain scrambled for a response, caught between surprise and…something else. Excitement? Nerves? “You went from nervous to bold pretty quickly,” I teased, stalling for time to think of an answer.

He chuckled softly, leaning back in his chair. “I’ve spent enough time regretting the things I didn’t do. Not making that mistake again.”

I studied him, my mind spinning. He wasn’t what I had expected—at all. But there was something about him that drew me in, something I couldn’t ignore.

“Yeah,” I said finally, the word slipping out before I could second-guess myself. “I’ll go out with you.”

His smile widened, and for the first time, I saw the tension in his shoulders ease. He simply said, “Good.”

As I packed up my things and headed for the door, I couldn’t help but wonder what I’d just gotten myself into.

Saying yes was the easy part. Now, I had to figure out how to make it work—especially with a four-year-old at home and no babysitter lined up. I made a mental note to text Megan as soon as I left. If anyone could help me juggle this new chapter of my life, it was her.

But as I walked out of Casey McConnell’s office, my heart still racing, I couldn’t help but feel like I’d made the right choice. For once, I wasn’t overthinking things. For once lately, I was doing something for me.